A Virgin State of Mind
by Girl in Midair
Summary: There is no room for love where they exist. The wind is always shifting. (DracoHermione. Post-Hogwarts.)


Disclaimer: Characters are property of J.K Rowling. I just like to mess with them. "A Virgin State of Mind" is by K's Choice (thanks to sushigurl for pointing that out!). Other than that, this little fic is mine-all-mine. Written for Crystal as a late Christmas present, bless her for her patience.

A VirginState of Mind

_there's__ a chair in my head_

_on__ which i used to sit_

_took__ a pencil and i wrote_

_the__ following on it_

How little they know, crawling on their stomachs in the dirt and the blood, crying out for their mothers and their sisters, their wives and their lovers. As if love could save them now, its fragile construction crumbling beneath the realities of pain and gore... it opens its mouth to speak and its teeth are broken and jagged, its tongue raw and bleeding.

There is no room for love where they exist. The wind is always shifting.

Here, things are cotton-warm and quiet. The absence of noise is almost disturbing... or it would be, if it wasn't so welcome and blessed. I cannot see the stars beyond, but I can feel them there, silent sentinels in their cold, steady burning. I am alone. Sitting in a single chair, alone.

This blank-canvas place should be meaningless, but somehow it means more to me than all the color I have ever seen. There is no red here... that shade I have come to hate, the color I was meant to revel in. I didn't revel in it; I just survived it.

It's strange, the things a person remembers in the quiet afterward. Small, irrelevant details... the precise, sharp starburst crack on broken eyeglasses; a fan of eyelashes flush against a brow bone as eyes widen; freckles standing out in sharp relief on a pale face; thick hair matted and grimed with bloody soil.

I remember these things, but they don't seem to belong to me anymore. The memories no longer have faces... they are only unattached details, unreal and far away.

_now__ there's a key_

_where__ my wonderful mouth _

_used__ to be_

_dig__ it up and throw it at me_

She is somewhere close, I know... I feel as if a star has suddenly drawn nearer to warm me and shed its light. I can feel it pulsating and thriving and simply _being, and it is a relief to know that of all the stars, this one still exists for the present._

For the present.

I find I have reached out an arm, as if I could grasp her and anchor her steadfastly near my side. Only still, warm air meets my fingers. I curl them close to my palm and draw my hand back, resting it in my lap. There is time... she will come to me here, and we will find one another.

_where__ can i run to_

_where__ can i hide_

_who__ will i turn to_

_now__ i'm in a virgin state of mind_

It is all hazy here, as if I were in a dream, but none of my dreams are so peaceful and so pale. The feeling is sweet and odd. I remember once as a child I lay down in a snow bank on my back, my arms stretched out on either side of me, my legs akimbo. The soft frozen white enveloped me, but I was not cold... I was warm and content, the snow seeming to keep my body warmth inside me instead of sapping it from me. I never wanted to move again... solitude and comfort were mine, my basic needs met, and I lay there for an hour at least. 

This place was like finding that snow bank again, only this time being allowed to stay there for eternity... in that feather-light place. 

She is dead. 

The thought comes to me very quickly, wrapping its arms around me from behind and whispering in my ear. I sink into its embrace. The thought is not disturbing... it offers a bizarre elation, my heart buoying itself up and up until it is in my throat. She is coming to me... I knew she was near.

A shape materializes before me, blurred and obscure; all I know is a feeling of light and clarity and vitality. A tangled mess of gold shining over white shoulders; a languid symphony of simple movement; a slow blink of eyes the color of undiluted coffee, shielded briefly by a tangle of pale eyelashes.

My body recognizes her before my vision does, my hands rising to meet the smooth skin of her face. My mind follows soon, urging my mouth to speak... but she seems so paper-fragile beneath my fingertips that I am afraid one word would crumble her. The thickness of her tawny hair is the same as ever, generous and full in my hands, scentless and clean... her small shape is tangible once more, and it is also the same, becoming more and more solid as I touch her hands, her neck, her hips, her face. 

She withstands it quietly, but not coldly; my touch is unfamiliar but not unpleasant to her. When I put my hand beneath her chin, she tilts it obligingly to receive my mouth on hers.

_got__ a knife to disengage_

_the__ voids that i can't bear_

_to__ cut out words i've got written_

_on__ my chair_

"You're here, then?" I ask her, resting my forehead against hers and tracing soft patterns on her cheek with my thumb.

"I had no choice," she answers quietly, and her hands are light as feathers on my chest. 

"I wanted you here with me," I tell her. The ambient light is shining on her; she looks like an early summer morning, golden and fresh and untouched.

"And so I came," she says soothingly, and she runs one of her small hands through my hair.

"It's beautiful here."

"It's quiet and peaceful, yes."

"I'm lonely without you."

"But I came to find you."

"You did," I assent. She maneuvers into my arms, until my left is wrapped around her waist and my right is braced across her body from her shoulder to where my fingertips settle just at the bottom of her ribcage. I can feel the rise and fall of her breath, her lungs expanding and retracting rhythmically. Her heartbeat is somewhere in the vicinity of my wrist; it is strong and steady.

_can__ i burn the mazes i grow_

_can__ i_

_i__ don't think so_

"You're alive then?" I ask. She seems startled by the question. She turns her head away from me, the delicate line of her neck exposed. I lift my hand to trace along it, and even there the rush of her blood is warm and fluid.

"I'm alive," she answers slowly, almost cautiously.

"I thought you'd lost it all," I tell her, bewildered. I push my finger harder against her throat to be sure, and her veins thunder against the pressure. 

"No," she says, and that is all she says. She takes my hand away from her neck and settles it across her again, her slim fingers wrapped around my forearm to hold me there.

"How are you here if you're not dead?" I ask her quietly. My breath makes her hair ripple near her ear, and she shivers a little. It is a long time before she answers.

"I can only stay a little while," she says. Her voice is gray and dismal, as if her throat were filled with ashes.

"Why only a little while?"

"You wanted me," she says, though it is no real explanation. "And so I came. Now be quiet and hold me."

And so I was. 

_where__ can i run to_

_where__ can i hide_

_who__ will i turn to_

_now__ i'm in a virgin state of mind_

**********

Hermione stands outside the door, biting her thumbnail. She leans her forehead against the observation window, her dark eyes wide and pained, reflecting the scene before her.

A lone man, sitting in a hard, unforgiving chair... his angel-white hair recently smoothed by her own fingers. His eyes are closed, but she knows their mercurial gray shade almost better than she knows her own name. His shoulders are slumped, his chin resting against his chest. The smile that had graced his pale mouth is gone now, and his lips move, forming inaudible words.

"Miss Granger," the nurse says quietly. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to leave now."

Hermione starts, removing her hand from its place near her mouth. 

"I'm sorry," she says repentantly... but her gaze is drawn to the solitary figure once more. This time, she feels the tears knotting up inside her throat and invading her eyes until she can't help but let them drop.

"It's not fair," she whispers to the nurse. "He asked for me. He knows who I am. Let me have him back... I can take care of him."

"That isn't possible," the nurse says quietly. Her voice is very humane, very kind.

"We're the only ones left," Hermione says, and her whisper is hoarse and haunted.

"We are truly sorry for your losses, Miss Granger," the nurse says in the same quiet tone, but this time she sounds as if she were discussing a stock market crash. "We have all lost something."

Hermione stares at her impassively. This woman couldn't know the way things were out there... the way things had been on that wide, burning field, the flashes of light-- of red, of green, of purple and blue-- that meant perhaps, this time, someone you loved was not coming back. 

"It was the Cruciatus curse, wasn't it?" she asks quietly.

"Yes," answers the nurse, relieved at the slight change of topic. "As far as we can tell."

"It was his father," Hermione says steadily, fixing her eyes on the nurse with a bold stare. "His father did it."

The nurse has a mixed reaction to this... Hermione can see she doesn't know how to take it. The woman lifts her chin a bit, haughtily.

"Yes, well," she says, and there is a note of indecisiveness in her voice. "We appreciate the information, Miss Granger. It will be most helpful in his treatment."

"I'm sure it will," Hermione says. She feels very tired suddenly. She begins to bite her thumbnail again.

"You can come back next week," the nurse says, and some of her original kindness creeps back into her voice. 

But Hermione knows, somehow, that the woman is afraid of her... afraid of the things that had happened to her. Afraid that by even speaking to Hermione, those things would rub off on her own person, and she would never be able to wash them off.

"Of course I'll come back." Hermione's voice is low, barely audible. She turns away and pushes her hands deep into the pockets of her corduroy jacket, leaving the building with a slow, steady walk.

The autumn outside is cold and biting, the breeze snapping its frigid jaws at her cheeks, lifting her hair off of her neck and making her shiver. She takes the steps slowly, her boots quietly thudding against the chipped stone. At the bottom of the flight, she turns to look back up at the windows. There is no sign of him.

She puts her hand to her mouth, pressing her fingertips there for a long moment. Then she lets them go, the wind brushing across her fingers and spiraling the quiet wish upward. 

"Don't be afraid," she whispered to no one in particular. "I'll come back. We're the only ones left. I won't leave you."

_where__ can i run to_

_where__ can i hide_

_who__ will i turn to_

_now__ i'm in a virgin state of mind_


End file.
